As they climbed out, Caesare bumped Clay on the arm and motioned to the canopy of Brazil nut trees above them. Dozens of the tall, dark green trees rose up well over a hundred feet with dense crowns of branches spreading out and surrounding both sides of the dock. “Nice place for blocking satellite pictures.”
“Very convenient.”
They followed Costa down a crumbling concrete path between two buildings, opening up into a wide area where several military vehicles were parked. Several soldiers in their Brazilian fatigues were milling around the Russian submarine, sitting motionless in the water.
When Clay and Caesare finally got a full view of the vessel, they stopped dead in their tracks. Costa noticed their halt and turned with a quizzical expression.
Clay and Caesare looked at each other quietly. After a long moment, Clay turned back to Costa. “We need to make a phone call.”
7
Admiral Langford was at his desk when his secretary rang on a special phone line, prompting him to end his other call.
“Yes,” he answered, switching over.
“Sir, I have a call for you from John Clay.”
Langford glanced at his watch then leaned forward onto his wide desktop. “Put him through.” He waited for the familiar “click” in the line before speaking. “Clay?”
“Hello, Admiral.”
“You and Caesare onsite?”
“Yes, sir, a bit north of Belem. We’ve just arrived.”
“Good. Do you have an ID on that November?”
“Well, sir,” Clay said, staring out at the submarine. “It’s definitely a Soviet class, but it’s not nuclear… and it’s not a November.”
“Not a November?”
“No, sir. It’s a Beluga class.”
Langford froze on the other end of the phone. “Did you say Beluga?”
“That is correct, sir. As in the Forel.”
“The Forel?! Are you sure, Clay?”
Clay turned to Caesare, who was watching three men standing on top of the sub. “I am. And, sir, it’s painted blue.”
“Christ.” Langford took a deep breath and leaned back into his chair. “Listen to me, Clay, carefully. I just got off a call with the State Department. It seems the Brazilian government has decided it no longer wants our help. They’re putting up obstacles left and right which means I don’t think I can get anyone else in there except you two. More importantly, I think it’s just a matter of time before the higher ups realize you’ve arrived, escort you both back to the airport, and send you off with a couple of nice Brazilian tarp hats.”
Clay looked at Costa, patiently waiting about ten feet away. “I see.”
“If that boat is the Forel,” continued Langford, “you’d better get a look at it fast, before whoever is in charge there gets a call.”
“Understood.”
Langford leaned forward again, gripping the receiver. “There’s something about that sub they don’t want us to see. So get aboard quick and get as much intel as you can!”
“Yes, sir.” Clay abruptly hung up and lowered the satellite phone from his ear. He folded down the bulky antennae and stuffed the unit back into his pack. Standing back up, he took a casual step closer to Caesare and whispered.
“We’ve got to hurry.”
Caesare gave a knowing nod. He then spoke loudly to Costa. “All right, Ensign, we’re all set. Show us the way.”
Costa smiled graciously and turned back toward the sub, motioning them to follow.
Unlike the Soviet November class nuclear submarines with their more compact but noisier power generators, the Beluga was very different. It was a prototype diesel-electric, originally designed to test new propulsion technologies and hull properties. However, the project was thought to have been scrapped in 2002. The S-553 Forel was the only known Beluga class submarine built, and it hadn’t been seen since 1997. Until now.
Langford sat silently in his chair, thinking. So the Forel was still in operation. But what for? And what in the hell was it doing in Brazil? He knew one thing for certain. There was only one reason to paint a submarine blue: for hiding in shallow water.
Like all subs, the Forel’s interior was spotless and metal gray, yet Brazil’s warm, moist jungle air gave the compartments of the Russian sub a subtle dank smell.
Once aboard, Clay and Caesare quickly made their way aft. They stopped and examined the giant diesel generators, taking several pictures. The generators were modernized with a more compact design but after some inspection, nothing appeared unusual. However, what did surprise them was what they found in the engine room.
Against the wall were two large metal racks filled with computer and audio equipment. From the racks, very thick, black cables ran up the steel wall, branching off into dozens of slightly smaller cables. They all spread around the engine room, terminating at the giant electric motor in the tail.
“What do you make of this?” Clay stepped forward and curiously ran his fingers over the cables. Caesare continued taking pictures behind him.
“Dunno.” After taking pictures of the computer racks, Caesare flipped the tiny digital camera into video mode and proceeded to record. He carefully turned and covered the entire room.
Clay turned back to the rack. All modern subs were computer-controlled these days, but he’d never seen any with computers like these. “Look at this,” he said to Caesare.
Caesare stepped in next to him and peered at the large devices on top. “What are those, amplifiers?”
“I’m not sure.”
Suddenly they heard footsteps approaching quickly from a forward compartment, along the metal floor. Caesare turned off the camera and dropped it into his pocket just moments before Costa appeared at the hatch. His face bore a look of confused urgency.
“Commanders,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I am informed that you need to leave this submarine immediately.”
8
Will Borger was sitting in his office, studying his computer monitor, when the phone rang. He didn’t acknowledge it at first as he scrolled down a window filled with complex computer code, examining it carefully. After the phone’s third ring, he finally glanced at the number and opened his eyes wide. He immediately reached out and picked up the receiver. “Yes, sir.”
“Borger,” barked Langford’s voice, “I need you up here right away.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now!”
“Uh, yes, sir,” he repeated. “I’ll be right there.”
Borger scrambled to hang up the phone then closed the window on the computer to save his work. He grabbed his half-empty can of Jolt and finished it off before finally looking down and straightening his shirt.
He turned to leave. As an afterthought, Borger reached back and grabbed his laptop, quickly unplugging its cables and tucking it under his arm.
Will Borger was what Admiral Langford liked to refer to as his secret weapon. He worked in the Department of Naval Investigations with Clay and Caesare and was arguably the smartest geek in the Pentagon. Even after Langford’s promotion, he kept a few “key” personnel reporting directly to him and Borger was one of them.
Although Borger was technically a contractor, it never made a difference to Langford. Which was why, even being forty pounds overweight, Borger was now running for the Admiral’s office.
When he arrived, Langford’s secretary was waiting for him and opened the door. Upon seeing him, Langford waved Borger in and motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk.
“Good, hold on. I’ve got Borger here too. Let me put you on speaker.”